Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

S hane stood in the living room of Cotton Timmons’ house, the scent of mildew and stale cigarettes clinging to the air. The place was a mess—dishes piled in the sink, laundry tossed across furniture, and the floor sticky enough that Shane regretted not wearing boot covers. His eyes swept the room, searching for anything that might give them more insight into the man they were dealing with.

The last 48 hours had been a whirlwind. Someone had gone up and collected Pratt’s DNA sample that morning but, bigger than that, a call had come in from the forensics lab the day before—male DNA from the Colburn house had been found, and it didn’t belong to anyone in the family.

The shocker was that the match was Cotton Timmons.

Specifically, a trace amount found on the countertop of a small desk cubby in the Colburns’ kitchen, right where Jane Colburn likely handled her bills and correspondence. The laptop recovered from that spot had only Jane and Willis’s DNA on it, but that single trace of Timmons’ DNA on the counter had been enough to secure a warrant.

Judge Crawford, who’d known Shane for years, hadn’t hesitated. Within hours, Shane, Tuffin, and Hanson, along with a small forensic team, converged on Timmons’ house with a full search warrant.

Now, as the others swept through the property, Shane was combing through a stack of mail on the cluttered kitchen table. He’d already found flight information to Colorado. It was jotted down on a notepad, and he’d called the airlines to confirm.

Timmons only had a one-way flight booked.

DNA found. One-way ticket to Colorado.

That pretty much told the tale, didn’t it?

They needed more.

Outside, the mutt chained to a post whined pitifully. The dog had a 5-gallon bucket of cheap kibble and another of water, but how long would that last? Shane made a mental note to call animal control once this was over. If Timmons had run—and Shane’s gut told him he had—then the dog needed to be turned in.

“Got some guns here,” one of the GBI agents called out from the bedroom. “None match the murder weapons, though.”

Shane frowned. It wasn’t surprising. If Timmons was their man, he’d have been smart enough to get rid of the murder weapons by now. Still, the sheer number of firearms in his home—a couple of rifles, a shotgun, and a handgun—painted a picture of a man who liked to be prepared for ... well, something.

“Any sign of bloody clothing or towels?” Shane asked, raising his voice to carry down the hall.

“Not yet,” the agent replied. “Still looking.”

From the other side of the kitchen where a door led out to a laundry room\ a tech came in, holding a rag.

“Looks like blood,” she said, victoriously.

Shane went to her and, with his gloved hands, took the rag. It wasn’t a lot of blood. Just one corner of the rag, really.

“Bag it,” he said, handing it back .

Shane continued sifting through the mail. Most of it was junk—credit card offers, past-due utility bills, and a few fishing magazines. But then something caught his eye: an open envelope from a fishing concierge company outside of Denver. The logo on the corner was a fish, its tail flicked upward as if it were mid-leap.

He pulled the folded papers out and scanned the first one quickly. A reservation for a one-day guided fishing trip, dated two days from now. Either Timmons was telling the truth, or he was damn good at setting up false leads. The invoice was marked paid from six months before. Also in the envelope was a confirmation for a hotel, booked for the next two days. But if the fishing expedition was in two days, too, was Timmons flying out immediately after he got off the boat? After a long day on the water?

That didn’t make sense.

Not only that, but a one-way flight? Who does that if they plan on returning home right away? His heart thumped faster as he realized what this meant. Timmons planned to go somewhere else, likely to disappear for a while. Colorado wasn’t just for a quick fishing trip—this had been premeditated. The fishing trip, if there even was one, was just the beginning.

“I think I’ve got something,” Shane muttered to himself. He folded the papers and slid them into his pocket before standing up.

“Hey, Weaver,” one of the forensic techs said, entering the room with a plastic bag in hand. Inside was a crumpled piece of paper. “Found this under the couch—county plats for both his and the Colburn property. And notes for a packing list. It mentions ‘bug out gear for CO.’”

Shane nodded absently. “Good work. Keep digging.” But he wasn’t about to wait for them to finish. Every instinct told him Timmons was trying to run, and Shane didn’t trust anyone else to get there first.

“Weaver, you good?” Hanson asked, stepping into the kitchen, a heavy set of keys dangling from her fingers. “I found these keys and they don’t fit this house or his shed.”

“Great, take those over and see if any of them fit the Colburn’s doors,” Shane said quickly, brushing past her and heading for the door. He could feel her eyes on his back, but he didn’t care. Timmons wasn’t going to get away on his watch.

The sunlight was blinding as Shane stepped outside and made his way to his SUV. He climbed in, started the engine, and pulled out onto the gravel road without a word to anyone. If anyone questioned him later, he’d deal with it then. Right now, the only thing that mattered was finding Timmons before he had a chance to disappear altogether.

As Shane drove, he glanced at the fishing company’s address on the paper. The small-town cop in him wasn’t used to chasing suspects across state lines, but he was willing to make an exception this time. If Timmons thought he could outsmart them, he was about to learn the hard way just how wrong he was.